Order Made
by symfonicdreams
Summary: His dreams were constant, unending, and always contained this man whose presence was familiar to the very marrow of his bones. And if Shizuo didn't know him, then why did his dreams seem like real events in the past? Based off 'Order Made'; IzayaxShizuo
1. Prologue

It never took long for him to wake from dreams, for the only dreams he had lately were nightmares. Always toppling off of the highest building ever, falling falling falling almost endlessly with one of his wings ripped off at the joint to leave him with a bleeding mess and a trembling, spasming half of the pair. There would be blood everywhere, in harsh droplets that stained the golden end feathers on his remaining wing, tarnishing his clothing. They would burn into his mind, etching in the pain, the fear, the everything – he would endlessly fall, without stop, without pause, without even a slowing down.

And there would always be someone, who had this voice that was innately familiar, as if it was something he would lean towards and be drawn to instinctively, that was always calling, shouting, crying, screaming his name with an anguished-laced voice, cracking and breaking with raw emotion. Red eyes, crimson like blood, tousled raven hair, pale skin – all on a male with black and grey wings who was reaching for him like it would be able to help and –

Shizuo awoke rapidly, jolting up violently enough to almost strain his lower back, with his breath coming in tremors and his chest heaving as if he had run far enough to deplete all of the adrenaline coursing through his system. 'Just a dream,' he told himself, running his hand over his face and pressing his forehead against his palm while forcibly breathing slower, 'Just a dream.'


	2. Chapter One

He is a local author, as well as a college professor in such classes involving theories, and proving things wrong that are thought to be right, or things thought to be impossible, irrevocably and obviously wrong right. A new-age philosopher perhaps, with black hair and red eyes and a lithe, borderline scrawny body that was yet elegant in all of the moves it made. Black and grey wings, perfectly preened and arranged, protruded from his shoulderblades and always remained neatly and primly folded against his back.

He is popular, widely read, and controversial at the same time because some people don't think that he should incorporate the themes, elements, language, extensive knowledge, hidden aspects, so on and so forth – all those damn literary terms that he doesn't like to think about because it sounds like bullshit because hell, sometimes authors or poets just mean that someone sees a cloud, or walks past a tree and they don't have to analyze it down to fuck or something like that, really – since his public didn't necessarily always involve those who were brilliant. Some were young, picking out novels for their titles, cover art, etcetera, and yes, some were the bright stars who knew fucking everything – that infuriated him too, because they would occasionally send in mail attempting to refute his writings. Hah! Him, wrong? Bullshit! – but others were oh so much more interesting.

Like this one for instance; he raised a thin black eyebrow in curiosity when his vision flitted from the pages in front of him to see a blonde take a seat in the unoccupied armchair directly in front of him. He is tall, judging from bent knees, and his eyes are a honey-mocha color but are hidden behind glasses that were fading into clear plastic – transitions no doubt? – lenses secured by a thick white frame. There were smudges of color on the frames, quite possibly paint, but the male didn't look like he would ever be a painter of any sort because he looked so rough and tumble. Broad shoulders, hands that didn't look delicate in the slightest, and his wings had their feathers messed in some places, with scratches and even a scar or two it looked like.

That might have been unavoidable though, noted the author with the barest of frowns behind the book hiding his lower face, because those scars were enough to have revealed the skin of his wings, and one even took a chunk out of the lower part of the left one. Judging from the gap of golden-yellow feathers at least.

How baffling though, and even his heart gave a twinge; scars or markings on wings were such things that were considered terrible, horrible, awful. Wings were a revered thing and were only touched by lovers, supposed to be kept from harm, and were more sensitive appendages than others. To have a whole piece gone, bone included, was only heard of in cases involving the police or something of that nature.

Interesting though, that such a person would pick his book up for a read. And actually seem to be reading it, according to the way his irises were moving slow enough to be absorbing the words but not too fast as to skim the text. An irritating buzz came from the blonde's pocket, and he sighed heavily while standing up. The book snapped shut in the process; it was for sure going to go back on the shelf and most definitely not.. with the man and on its way to the counter?

Izaya's spine tingled when that set of eyes shaded in a brown that he hadn't ever particularly seen before met with his, and he faintly caught a hitching of breath along with a poorly concealed shudder from the blonde.

Silence was terse between them for a second at most before the connection was broken, leaving both to rub at the right sides of their chest subconsciously.


	3. Chapter Two

He isn't employed at some big company, where he ran the whole thing and had money out the ass. No, not at all; he didn't want such a job, because it would eat at his free time and turn him into a person who he didn't want to be.

He is talented, albeit plagued with anger problems and gifted with a dreadfully short temper. His eyesight is terrible, so he has a pair of white framed glasses that were old and scuffed on bits that hit the floor most often when dropped and had smudges of ink and paint stained on them from countless years. He doesn't like change, and is incredibly fond of familiarity.

The anger has been an issue since early childhood, and is incredibly difficult to control. It shows with the veins that pop in his neck, and the noises he makes and the items that occasionally get thrown. It was only because of his brother – who was such a stunning actor, he regarded with beaming pride – that he had taken up attempting to curb it and find outlets. Art had given that to him, as well as the coloring on his spectacles.

Pottery was bullshit – he crushed every single thing he made besides a very lopsided pot that he had ever made – but painting was nice. He could paint over a mistake, erase it with color, cover it up to never be remembered again so easily. Drawing was tolerable, he supposed; it too had driven him up a wall more than once because of the eraser marks and pressing-lines that were left behind.

Literature however, was by far his favorite. Books sucked him in, latched on and refused to let go. It was brilliant, wonderful, amazing. Everything and more he needed to calm down and stop exploding at some helpless other person who didn't deserve it. And it all led him to his job, where he edited and corrected pieces that aspiring authors sent in for evaluations. To see the preliminary ideas, to read the possibly breath-taking novels or prequels, prologues, introductions to them made him happy as a proverbial clam.

His other job was interesting as well, but editing took precedence always. Piles and stacks of papers lined his desk at his apartment, the arms of his couch, the countertops in his kitchen; hard copies were always easier for him to go over than staring at a bleeding computer screen for hours on end. His eyesight was already shit as is, thank you very much!

And so it left him in his current state, picking up his coffee from the local café on a Saturday morning with his satchel over his shoulder. Countless promising – or perhaps not so much – submissions were waiting for his corrections and advice, and this little building was always a sanctuary of sorts; calm, serene and peaceful. A sip into his beverage however, left him nearly retching and gagging at the taste.

"Shit!" He all but hissed, having the grace to direct his coughing into a hastily snatched up napkin. Large mottled wings puffed out from his shoulderblades agitatedly and the glasses on his nose were skewed while his face was slightly flushed from the near choking experience, papers slipping in his grip a considerable amount.

A laugh caught his attention and a slim hand attached to an equally slim arm was placing a different cup in front of him while collecting the offending – absolutely wretched, vile, bitter – drink on the small rounded rectangular table. "Grabbed the wrong one." The new person supplied helpfully, tousled raven locks falling over his eyes which were red as garnets. "Especially considering that yours has enough sugar and cream to put someone into a diabetic coma." Vaguely familiar, this one; the slender male from the bookstore with the wings that were rather eye catching and pretty if he was allowed to say such a thing.

Shizuo just snorted, rolling his eyes dismissively. "Thank you." He grumbled, chasing away the taste of that black coffee or whatthefuckever was in that cup with his own sweetened – okay, so maybe he did go kind of overboard with the sugar and half and half – drink.

End feathers brushed, ruby red to iridescent gold, as the stranger flitted past, eliciting a gasp and a jolt from each. It was like the other day, maybe the other week because things sometimes ran together, because it was like lightning jumping up and into their very veins. No though; it was different. More intense in a way, for it was just a spine tingle last time and yet this was like a static shock that coaxed the hairs on arms and backs of necks and feather endings to stand up and puff out with surprise.

He was gone though, the pretty-winged one, though if one only looked then he could be found leaning against the corner of the store on the outside while catching his breath.

Shizuo clenched his fists slowly, opening them up again and exhaling shakily; this was unnatural and it was making his blood thrum in his ears and he most certainly should probably go home instead of trying to figure this out right now in public. And so his bag was stuffed with his papers, swung over his shoulder, coffee collected in a matter of seconds while the bell trilled at his exit.

A sheet had made its way to the floor in the blonde's haste, face up innocently on the tile.

'**Order Made**' it read right in the center with red pen marking the underline beneath. On the footnote at the very bottom right hand corner in tiny font, a single word was written in the same red ink in order to identify which submission it belonged to; '**Orihara**'.


	4. Chapter Three

The dream that night had changed drastically from the toppling, terrifying, gut wrenching ones that had been invading previously. It was calm, almost disturbingly so, for he had never been anywhere that was completely in this state of peace.

It was grayscale, robbed of color and thrown into black and white. The contrast between them almost made him shudder, but something pulled him to move forward and he complied. So odd was the sensation, as if someone was tugging at his elbow or sucking him towards this area, but he soon found himself standing before two simple stools.

A shock ran through his body when he reached out and realized that his hand was entirely white. Not like Caucasian, but pure white; the kind of white that was devoid of any pigmentation whatsoever. All of the wrinkles in his palms, the scars and calluses, every single defining detail had vanished. His wings even; they were now pure white as if they had no trace of the golden or grey hues in the feathers.

It didn't disturb him though, and that in itself was the thing that unsettled his stomach.

"Past or future?" A slightly high voice queried, and he turned his head slowly. The newcomer was entirely black, just as he was white; no detail in it at all. Just the body and wing shape – a tugging sensation at the back of his mind almost screamed at him that he knew where he had seen them before, dammit! Thin and graceful, this man was etched into his memories for sure.

"Huh?" came the muffled reply, a frown leaking through the tone.

"Would you like to see the past or future, Shizu-chan?"

"Don't call me that." Shizuo griped instantaneously, earning a laugh and what could have only been a beaming grin in return.

"You need to answer my question though!" His voice was semi-irritating, Shizuo decided, but wasn't entirely unpleasant to listen to. "Do you want to see the past or future? Which do you want?"

The air was pensive for a moment, and feathers that were both black as the darkest abyss and white as the purest cloud rustled with a light flutter of readjustment.

"The past." Shizuo spoke after a while, looking up to where he just knew the black figure's eyes were, "I want to see the past. In order to become someone kind; not strong." He nodded slowly, resolutely in his decision, and continued for another few words more, "So I can know what memories are."

An almost excited laugh escaped his companion and short hair was tossed back with a flip of his head. The outlines of the strands swayed with the movement, and Shizuo knew – just knew automatically – that the locks were elegantly tousled if that was possible. "Arms, legs, mouths, ears, eyes, hearts, breasts and the holes in your nose," He said now, with what sounded like renewed vigor, "I'll give you two, isn't that great?"

A frown marred Shizuo's expression and he quickly shook his head. "Er.. sorry but I'm fine with just one mouth." He couldn't help a small chuckle from escaping his chest and a sheepish smile crossed his face, "I don't need to argue with myself. And I only need to kiss one person."

The (not)expression that flitted across the other's face for a fraction of a second and his mouth opened with a quiet inhale that signaled the beginning of speech and –

Shizuo groaned, almost slamming his fist down onto his snooze button and rubbing at his face with a large hand. His mind flew into overdrive when he realized that his skin was a peach color again and his calluses were firm against his forehead, that his wings had all of their feathers and coloring and his train of thought stopped right there instead of continuing because he didn't like bothering with the scars on those huge appendages.

Instead, he stuffed his face into his pillow and groaned with exhaustion; such an ungodly time to wake up. Barely after six o'clock it was, and he skipped out on hours of extra sleep both because of this wonderful – sarcasm included – wakeup call and the time he had spent the previous night almost tearing his apartment up to look for the title page to one of the submissions he had received. Fruitlessly, may he add; he would just have to go print another damn title page out later when he actually had to into work.

"Damn dreams." He muttered under his breath, resigning himself to being awake and dragging himself up. Maybe he could find something to pass the time instead of try to go back to sleep; the words were blending in on the printed papers now, so going over submitted chapters, prologues, et cetera were out of the question.

Thirty minutes later, Heiwajima Shizuo was walking out of his apartment clad in a pair of fitted jeans, a grey shirt covered with a deep blue cardigan and a knitted scarf tucked snugly around his neck to prevent the chill from seeping to his collarbone and mouth. Under his arm was a copy of a new book that he had picked up the other week from the bookstore; just one of the multiple works owned by the blonde by the same author. The style was captivating to say the least, and Shizuo wasn't going to admit that he was rather fond of them.

'**Izaya Orihara**' was printed in the space of the book jacket right below his thumb, which remained oddly but unnoticeably warm throughout his trek through Ikebukuro.


End file.
